


Too Much Heart To Go Around

by BlushingDragon



Series: The Rogue Trevelyans [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dorian's Magic Hands, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mirgraines, Post-In Your Heart Shall Burn, Pre-Relationship, Touch-Starved Trevelyan, Trevelyan (Dragon Age) has Sibling(s), coping methods, non-inquisitor trevelyan - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-04 16:23:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12172488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlushingDragon/pseuds/BlushingDragon
Summary: With no support, his first few steps wobbled, and Nathanael immediately gripped his shoulders with firm hands."Sit down and eat your soup, Pavus," ordered Nathanael sternly and stared down grey eyes that looked like they wanted to argue.





	Too Much Heart To Go Around

Nathanael observed quietly, mixing and crushing herbs for Adan, to keep his mind cleared and his hands busy. If he was helping the wounded, then he couldn't rush out into the snow, and if he kept watching this odd Mage, he wouldn't drive himself mad with grief.

After practically swooning into Cullen's arms, Altus Dorian Pavus stuck to Alyss's side like a strangely helpful burr, anticipating the attacks of these Venatori and weaving fire spells as fast as he could. Nathanael had occasionally visited Edmund and Althea at Ostwick Circle, and none of the mages there had ever moved with the same power or grace. For a long while, Madame de Fer had been the most powerful Mage he'd known. When he watched Dorian, he knew he would have to revise that opinion.

However, even powerful mages were subject to exhaustion and adrenaline crashes, so now Dorian Pavus lay in a threadbare bedroll with only the faintest of snores as a sign that he was still breathing. He'd lost consciousness almost the exact moment that his head hit the ground.

None of the other amateur healers or even Adan would go near the Tevinter mage, so Nathanael took it upon himself to run elfroot salve on the burns Dorian sustained. The mage had kept both Nathanael and his sister alive in the last battle, for whatever that was worth now. He'd be damned if he didn't return the favour.

Nathanael couldn't say how much time had past when Stitches entered the tent, two bowls of soup in his hands. He extended both to Nathanael, and jerked his head toward Dorian when the rogue shot him a questioning look.

"For when he wakes up. He's gonna need it."

Gratefully, Nathanael accepted the bowls, placing one near himself and the other by the end of Dorian's bedroll. "Thank you."

Stitches shook his head with an expression Nathanael didn't understand. "You're both lucky that he doesn't need a real healer. If you weren't looking after him, you'd be getting frostbite looking for the Herald."

Alyss would've winced at her title if she had been there, but Nathanael was too tired to do it in her stead. So he only nodded, grateful for the understanding, and returned to the mortal and pestle, although he did remember to occasionally take a bite of food.

Nathanael was just finishing his own soup when Dorian woke with a lurch forward and a gasp. The sudden action startled Nathanael so badly that he nearly dropped the bowl in his hands. For the shortest of moments, Dorian's grey eyes were wide and wild, and Nathanael could practically hear his rapid heartbeat. Then a broken smile was plastered on the mage's face and he smoothed his hair over in an attempt to put himself together.

"Nathanael, wasn't it?" Dorian asked.

"I'm impressed that you caught my name in all of commotion," expressed Nathanael dryly.

"I pay attention to the interesting things," Dorian shrugged, and attempted to get on his feet. With no support, his first few steps wobbled, and Nathanael immediately gripped his shoulders with firm hands.

"Sit down and eat your soup, Pavus," ordered Nathanael sternly and stared down grey eyes that looked like they wanted to argue.

Thankfully for them both, Dorian meekly obeyed and sat cross-legged on his bedroll. He cradled the bowl in his hands, and after a few moments, a faint steam rose from the soup again. Nathanael rolled his eyes at the reckless use of mana, but he wasn't about to begrudge him the luxury. Although it might have been a use of common sense on Dorian's part as well; he ate the warm food slowly, which made it more likely to stay down later.

"I assume she didn't make it out after us," spoke Dorian softly.

Nathanael swallowed past the lump on his throat before replying, "How'd you figure that?"

The way his lips quirked upward was sad, but not unkind. "You'd be hovering over her instead. Siblings? I'd assumed so, from the colour palette you share."

"Twins," Nathanael muttered. A twitching muscle signalled the beginning of a headache, and he grimaced through the pain. Nothing brought on a stress headache quite like burying your emotions by aggressively looking after others, he supposed, but the timing was damned inconvenient.

Surprisingly warm hands ghosted across his temples, and Nathanael just barely held himself back from jerking away in surprise. Dorian's gaze was kind, but reproachful.

"What's the saying? Healers make bad patients?" Dorian said pointedly.

"Not really a healer," grunted Nathanael. "I just know herbs. And poisons."

The harsh tightness began to ease into a floating, warm feeling. Dorian's fingertips pressed firmly against his temples, and Nathanael hummed as the pain faded under the blanket of warmth. Perhaps his response was a little too pleased, because he felt the faint rumble of laughter from Dorian's chest.

"Have I tamed the master assassin, then?" Dorian joked softly, seemingly proud of the pliable young man in his hands.

Any quick retort fled Nathanael as those dexterous fingers began to massage in small circles. To his chagrin, a strangled whine escaped him, and Dorian's sharp inhale from behind seemed to break easy fluidity of the moment. Nathanael felt wound up, but fuzzy, as if pleasantly tipsy but starkly sober at the same time.

"You're a good man, Dorian Pavus," Nathanael whispered, afraid to shatter the silence into something broken and liable to cause injury. "I'm glad you're here."

As Nathanael had hoped, Dorian relaxed against him, but those marvellous hands slid away and the Mage stepped back, attempting to regain a confident swagger. Nathanael could see the action for what it was: donning the old armour, hiding away the vulnerable places. That was alright: he'd already found one of Dorian's weak spots, and he resolved to treat it with care.

"As opposed to where, I'd hate to think," Dorian blustered, but the dim candlelight couldn't hide the fluttering pulse-point in his throat or the way his grey eyes seemed to shimmer.

The cacophony of voices nearby reminded them both of the world outside the tent--the cold, the hopeless atmosphere, and the people desperate for a leader. As the clamouring voices neared, a strong Navarran accent surpassed them all.

"Make way! The Herald needs medical attention!"

Immediately, Nathanael started toward the tent flap, but paused and looked back at Dorian. Strange as it seemed, he was loathe to leave him alone, despite the fact that Dorian was now awake.

“Go,” urged Dorian.

The rogue didn't have to be told twice, and darted out of the tent. Dorian figured he would've done the same for Felix, as the closest thing he'd had to a sibling, and Nathanael’s heart was certainly a few sizes larger than his own.

Rumors of the Inquisition spread through Redcliffe like wildfires, which was how he'd known where to find them, but the stories didn't stop there. Of course there had been tales of the fiery Alyss Trevelyan, rumored to be Andraste reborn or simply blessed by Her but the quiet Nathanael Trevelyan hadn't been without tales of his own. In the space of a few minutes, however, he'd become the anathema to them all. He wasn't the Herald’s dagger to be wielded, but rather a force of nature all his own. His silence was not the product of a cold heart; it was simply the matter of having too much heart to offer and only enough eloquence to offer it through actions.

For a moment, watching the tent flap waver in the mountain wind and listening to footsteps crunching the snow, Dorian suddenly realized what Gereon Alexius must have thought on the day that he'd decided to offer him an apprenticeship. _Someone needs to take care of him before he runs himself into the ground._ That feeling must've been a great deal like whatever was squeezing Dorian’s heart in his chest.

In the back of his mind, Dorian knew he was being a sentimental fool, but he began to resign himself to the mountain wind and the mud and the dogs--all of it, because if someone didn't save Nathanael Trevelyan from himself one of these days, the Inquisition might very well collapse.

 


End file.
